(The story begins a few months after "Oswald, Part1")
Me: "Hello?"
Him: "Hi Jenica."
Me: "I'm sorry, who is this?"
Him (w/whiny, wounded tone of voice): "What, you don't remember me?"
Me: "No, I'm sorry. Could you please tell me who you are?"
Him: "It's Oswald."
Me: "I'm sorry, Oswald who? I don't think I know an Oswald."
Him: "Oswald, from the Woodlands Post Office."
Me: "Oh, hi. I'm sorry, I forgot your name."
Him: "You have a parcel here. Can you come get it?"
Me: "Well, I'm at work right now."
Him: "So, when will you come get it?"
Me: "I'm not sure, but I'll try to make it this week."
Showing posts with label post office adventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label post office adventures. Show all posts
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Oswald, Part 1
This is my story of Oswald, the world's worst post office worker who still has a job. First, a few explanations of the Zambia Post Office are needed. In Lusaka, there aren't really individual mail boxes. No, scratch that. There are no individual mail boxes at houses. There are post office boxes at, as one might guess, the Post Office. I inquired into the cost of renting one such box. I am old fashioned in some ways, and I still enjoy sending and, especially while living the expat life, receiving snail mail. So, how much would it be to rent one? Exactly correct. 500,000 kwacha for the year, or, roughly $100 USD. I love letters, but really? $100? I just couldn't see any cost-benefit in that hefty price. However, one doesn't need to rent anything to receive packages. When I told my friends that I could receive parcel post but not letters, it wasn't a joke.
To receive such a package, I first had to visit the Main Post Office, at the corner of Cairo and Church Roads. One day before work, I went early and lined up. I explained the situation (I'd like to receive a package from the U.S. How do I do that?), and I was given the correct mailing address for my home. Interestingly, part of that address included my personal cell phone number. I laughed at my triumph, actually accomplishing what I set out to do, and walked to work.
The package receiving process works this way. Presumably, a package arrives with my name and address. The postal worker sees it, reads the phone number, and calls to inform me that I've received a package. Some time within the next two weeks, I search for a day when I can make it to my neighborhood post office before 4:30 p.m. and pick it up. I arrive, give my name, fake an NRC number, show I.D., sign 5 different lines, and pay a fee. At this point, the package is mine. Alternatively, there is also a delivery service, but I must be home at the time for the delivery boy to drop off the item. This only worked one time. Inexplicably, the delivery service does not include any fees.
Receiving a package from home is, for the foreign teacher, a way to get through the rough times. Just the fact that someone cares enough to go through the hassle of picking out items, carefully packing them, and paying to ship them to across the ocean makes you feel like your life matters to someone, even if it's not to anyone in your immediate vicinity. My sister is the best package sender ever. She deserves an award. She sent great boxes that included a glass jar of salsa, sheets, tortillas, magazines so I can pretend to keep up with fashion trends and celebrity gossip, art, scarves, and the essentials that couldn't make it into my 2-bag limit. I eagerly awaited the arrival of my first package from home in Zambia.
Enter Oswald.
Ah Oswald. Sometimes, life is too easy, so an instigator is sent to mess with you. This is the only explanation possible for the presence of Oswald in my Zamlife. Oswald's job, from what I gather, is searching the back room for parcels and handing the parcels to the customer. He also seems to be the one who is meant to call customers when a parcel has arrived for them. Additionally, he delivers parcels, on occasion.
I left work and walked home - a bounce in my step on the 1.5 hour walk down Church Road and Independence Avenue. I was going to the Woodlands Post Office to pick up my first package. Excitement hurried me on. I got there. I gave my name. The young guy went to the back to get the package. He put it on the counter. He didn't speak. What was I supposed to do? Could I just take it? "No, you have to sign for it," he said with sarcasm, a hint of a smile...perhaps a challenge? He gave me a look, a knowing look, as if he knew me. As if he ever could. My skin crawled. Give me my box already. I signed the line where he indicated. I waited. He stared. I waited longer. I had been in Zambia long enough to know how to play this game without getting frustrated, but I was still wary of his intentions. Could I take my box and leave? Slowly, he flipped through the pages and showed that I needed to sign some more lines. Good. Was it really that hard being a postal worker? Couldn't he have just showed me that to begin with? I promised myself not to show any outward signs of impatience, then wondered if he'd even be able to read them on a muzungu. I was finally granted ownership of the box, and I hurriedly carried it home. I forgot the strange encounter at the post office as I went through the box's contents. I sent a thank-you email, text, and facebook post. There is no such thing as superfluity when a sister mails a box to a foreign country. Oswald didn't dampen my happiness that day, but soon my dealings at the post-office would carry the twin emotions of excitment and dread.
To receive such a package, I first had to visit the Main Post Office, at the corner of Cairo and Church Roads. One day before work, I went early and lined up. I explained the situation (I'd like to receive a package from the U.S. How do I do that?), and I was given the correct mailing address for my home. Interestingly, part of that address included my personal cell phone number. I laughed at my triumph, actually accomplishing what I set out to do, and walked to work.
The package receiving process works this way. Presumably, a package arrives with my name and address. The postal worker sees it, reads the phone number, and calls to inform me that I've received a package. Some time within the next two weeks, I search for a day when I can make it to my neighborhood post office before 4:30 p.m. and pick it up. I arrive, give my name, fake an NRC number, show I.D., sign 5 different lines, and pay a fee. At this point, the package is mine. Alternatively, there is also a delivery service, but I must be home at the time for the delivery boy to drop off the item. This only worked one time. Inexplicably, the delivery service does not include any fees.
Receiving a package from home is, for the foreign teacher, a way to get through the rough times. Just the fact that someone cares enough to go through the hassle of picking out items, carefully packing them, and paying to ship them to across the ocean makes you feel like your life matters to someone, even if it's not to anyone in your immediate vicinity. My sister is the best package sender ever. She deserves an award. She sent great boxes that included a glass jar of salsa, sheets, tortillas, magazines so I can pretend to keep up with fashion trends and celebrity gossip, art, scarves, and the essentials that couldn't make it into my 2-bag limit. I eagerly awaited the arrival of my first package from home in Zambia.
Enter Oswald.
Ah Oswald. Sometimes, life is too easy, so an instigator is sent to mess with you. This is the only explanation possible for the presence of Oswald in my Zamlife. Oswald's job, from what I gather, is searching the back room for parcels and handing the parcels to the customer. He also seems to be the one who is meant to call customers when a parcel has arrived for them. Additionally, he delivers parcels, on occasion.
I left work and walked home - a bounce in my step on the 1.5 hour walk down Church Road and Independence Avenue. I was going to the Woodlands Post Office to pick up my first package. Excitement hurried me on. I got there. I gave my name. The young guy went to the back to get the package. He put it on the counter. He didn't speak. What was I supposed to do? Could I just take it? "No, you have to sign for it," he said with sarcasm, a hint of a smile...perhaps a challenge? He gave me a look, a knowing look, as if he knew me. As if he ever could. My skin crawled. Give me my box already. I signed the line where he indicated. I waited. He stared. I waited longer. I had been in Zambia long enough to know how to play this game without getting frustrated, but I was still wary of his intentions. Could I take my box and leave? Slowly, he flipped through the pages and showed that I needed to sign some more lines. Good. Was it really that hard being a postal worker? Couldn't he have just showed me that to begin with? I promised myself not to show any outward signs of impatience, then wondered if he'd even be able to read them on a muzungu. I was finally granted ownership of the box, and I hurriedly carried it home. I forgot the strange encounter at the post office as I went through the box's contents. I sent a thank-you email, text, and facebook post. There is no such thing as superfluity when a sister mails a box to a foreign country. Oswald didn't dampen my happiness that day, but soon my dealings at the post-office would carry the twin emotions of excitment and dread.
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